


Emotional Significance of Calendar Events

by ratherbefree



Category: Community
Genre: F/M, Father's Day, Gen, Mother's Day, Some Fluff, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 02:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7248085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherbefree/pseuds/ratherbefree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3 different Father's Days in Jeff Winger's life. 3 different Mother's Days in Annie Edison's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Father's Day

**Author's Note:**

> just a wee drabble i wrote for the occasion. 
> 
> happy fathers day!

_11th June, 1983._

The blue paint flakes are sticking to the sweat at the tips of his fingers, and Jeff’s hands feel warm, feverish almost, despite the cool metal of the post box. 

It is the afternoon, and the sun shines high in the sky. He told his mom he’d be hanging out at the YMCA a couple blocks away, and jammed the envelope up his shirt so she wouldn’t suspect anything.

It should be so _easy_. 

He’s done the hard bit - the writing and decorating and hiding from mom. Now all that’s left is to drop the slip of a card into the box.

Just. Do. It.

He wills his hand to move of it’s own accord, but nothing happens. Maybe he should check the address again, just to make sure…

Okay, so, well, _technically_ he doesn’t know the _real_ address - dad forgot to say on his way out, because he was so busy and everything. But his mom mentioned in passing that he probably returned to grandma’s house, over in Fort Collins, and _her_ address was easy enough to find out. 

It’s important that this gets to him, and this is the only chance he has - dad won’t be visiting til the end of the month, and it’s Fathers Day in a week.

Plus, the card itself is super cool. On the inside, he carefully copied out a drawing of Han Solo. That’s his dad’s favourite character, and it’s his favourite, too, ‘cause he’s brave and awesome and gets all the bad guys. 

Maybe _he_ should be more like Han Solo. 

He’s being a total sissy. 

Dad would be annoyed with him. 

Dad _would_ be annoyed with him…

Okay. Okay. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he unfurls his fingers, releasing the envelope. Except it doesn’t fall. His hands are too sweaty; the thin paper sticks to them. Just shake it off. There.

It hits the side of the box on the way down, and the soft clang of the metal is kinda satisfying, in a weird way. 

He’s did it. Dad’ll be so grateful. 

Now all he has to do is wait for a reply. 

* * *

_16th June, 2013._

It’s been over 6 months since Thanksgiving, so Jeff really couldn’t care less about his dad. 

Sure, he’s thought about him. It’s kind of hard not to, when everyone on his Facebook feed seems to be personally bombarding him with Father’s Day updates. But he’s not much of a father, and anyway, he has another son to share the day with, now. 

He’s drinking because he damn well wants to. This has nothing to do with William Winger.

And Britta can suck it. She can call all she wants; he’s not gonna answer. 

Everything is fine. _There’s nothing to worry about._

It’s just June 19th. It’s a normal day, full of normal things, and _how_ is his drink gone already?? 

It’s all totally fine. 

* * *

 

_17th June, 2018_

Someone is poking his arm. 

It is too early for someone to be poking his arm. He should be asleep. That’s what people do in the mornings. 

“Jeff.”

Oh. Annie. Annie should be asleep, too. “Mmph.” 

“Jeff. Jeeeeeff.” 

Annie’s not in bed???

“C’mon. Open your eyes. I know you’re awake, mister.” 

“‘Am now.” He cracks one eye open to adjust to the brightness, then the other. Annie’s smiling blurrily at him, perched on the edge of the bed. “Wha’ is it?” 

Instead of answering, she reaches behind her, impossibly produces a white envelope out of thin air, and places it atop the sheets covering him, near his neck. 

“Huh?”

“Happy Father’s Day!” 

“I’m not a father.” 

Annie raises an eyebrow at him, before looking pointedly down at the swell of her stomach. “What’s this, then?” 

“I’m not a father, _yet.”_ He amends. 

“Technicalities.” She dismisses his argument with a wave of her hand. “Just open the card already.” 

He does as she says, suppressing a smile while he’s at it. Annie doesn’t need to know she’s won. 

The front boasts a photo of the recent sonogram, painstakingly bordered with silver glitter. When he unfolds it, the message _HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!!!!!!!_ glares up at him. _Lots of love from Annie and baby xx_ the bottom reads. 

Jeff stares at it for probably a little longer than necessary, letting the sentiments sink in. Though he’s passed the point of the situation not feeling real, like it’s truly happening, it still just _hits_ him every once in a while. He’s going to be a father. 

He soon becomes aware of Annie fidgeting nervously beside his waist, and realises he hasn’t really thanked her yet. 

“Thank you.” He refolds it carefully, placing it on the nightstand. “I love it. I love _you.”_

“Aww.” Annie coos. “Love you too.” She crawls over his legs to sit next to him on the bed, leaning her back against the headboard. It takes another moment of manoeuvring, but they finally find a position wherein Annie can rest her head on his shoulder. 

Jeff uses this to his advantage straight away, pressing a kiss to her hairline. “First Father’s Day.” 

Moments later, despite the awkward position, he is just drifting back to sleep when Annie murmurs, “And there’ll be many more like this in the future.” 


	2. Mother's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 Mother's Days in Annie's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's mothers day in the uk. this is a fic to commemorate that.

_10th May, 1998._

At seven ( _andahalf!)_ Annie spends the early morning poring over the various shiny, stiff-backed cookbooks her mom keeps in the white _(that-means-don’t-touch, Annie)_ magazine holders in the kitchen. She’s trying to find a recipe for pancakes, ‘cause if _she_ had a day to lie in bed and eat breakfast, she knows that’s the food that _she’d_ choose. She’s not totally sure if it’s the type of food her _mom_ would want, but she doesn’t know how to make beignets (mom’s latest craze) or banana muffins (mom’s _secret_ favourite food), and anyway, it’s not like anyone can say no to pancakes - they’re a special treat. 

After nearly half an hour of searching, she thinks she’s got it - easy-to-make, whole wheat pancakes. The picture in the book makes them look pretty good, even if they aren’t as fluffy as the ones at IHOP, or the ones her bubbe makes and doesn’t tell her parents about. But they’ll do, and she thinks she knows how to make them. 

She might only be in first grade _(nearlysecond!)_ but Annie’s pretty sure she has a handle on at least the _basics_ of cooking. She can make toast, oatmeal, eggs - and she’s watched people make pancakes a thousand times before, so probably it won’t be that hard. 

So she measures the ingredients out _exactly,_ follows all the instructions _exactly,_ but from there on it gets a little vague. The book says that the pancakes are done when they’re “golden brown” on both sides, but really, that isn’t helpful at all. She keeps them cooking for a few seconds longer just in case, then another few seconds, and another…

By the time she has them arranged, neatly, on the plate, they’re maybe _just_ past that particular colour. But it’s okay! It’s okay, ‘cause she’s covered them in whipped cream and strategically placed fresh strawberries over the bits that look burned. They look so good, she’s kinda disappointed she didn’t make them for herself. 

It’s just before 8am, so her mom is probably _awake,_ but not out of bed yet. She likes to spend exactly half an hour catching up on her work e-mails before getting up. 

Annie grabs the card she made in class off of the kitchen counter, picks up the still-warm plate, and heads upstairs. 

“Mom?” She asks to the door, knocking twice. 

“Come in,” her mom replies. 

She plasters a smile on her face and practices her what-a-wonderful-daughter-I-am voice before turning the doorknob and entering, shutting the door quietly behind her. 

“It’s very early, you know.” Mom has an arm thrown over her face, all dramatic, like the very act of Annie opening the door is something that causes her pain. 

“I know,” Annie refuses to let the smile off her face. “But it’s Mother’s Day, remember? I made you breakfast, just like I said-“ 

“Oh, I didn’t think you were serious.” She straightens up to sit, regarding the plate in Annie’s hand with a weary expression. “Let’s see, then.” 

She brings it over, but holds out the card first. Her mom, distracted by the food, takes it from her absently and places it on her dad’s beside table. 

“Pancakes?” 

“Yeah! I made them whole-wheat, though, just like the recipe book said, and I even put in some strawberries, ‘cause they’re fruit, right, and-“ 

“Annie,” she cuts her off, sweetly. She might be smiling, but Annie knows that voice - it’s the same one she uses when she tells her that no, she _can’t_ go to the park and play with the other kids, she _can’t_ have the extra dollop of ice cream, she _can’t_ sit down and watch the TV with her brother, not until she’s finished her chores or her homework or her extra credit or whatever else there is to do. (There’s always stuff to do.) 

“Annie,” she says again. “You know I can’t eat that.” 

“But they’re healthy! I made sure! I used brown sugar and everything.” 

“Using healthier ingredients doesn’t automatically make it a healthy meal, Annie.” 

“I know that, but-“ Stupidly, she tries to offer the plate to her anyway, but her mom pushes it back, shaking her head. 

“Don’t you think these are more suited to your brother’s tastes, anyway?” She points out, already swinging her feet out of bed. “I think he would like them a lot more than me.” 

“I guess,” Annie nods, even though she’d much rather have them herself. 

“Of course,” her mom agrees, climbing out of bed and, with a hand on Annie’s back, sort of walking and pushing her out the door. “You know, next time, you really should think things through a bit more.” 

“Sorry,” Annie replies. Then, in a burst of courage, “you didn’t read your card.”

She brushes it off with a wave of her hand. “I’ll get to it later.” 

* * *

_9th May, 2010._

For reasons she refuses to disclose, Britta is the only person free on Sunday. (Annie’s guess is that she isn’t super close to her own mother, but she bites her tongue because either way, the day should be lovely.) 

The plan is to start off at Denny’s, meeting at 11, then head over to the mall. Britta suggested seeing the new _Twilight_ movie, but from the grimace that accompanied it, it was clear she was only doing so because she assumed it was the type of thing Annie would like. (Which was at the time vaguely insulting, she’s nineteen years old for goodness’ sake, not thirteen, and besides, _Twilight_ is more Shirley’s thing, anyway- oh, never mind.) 

Annie arrives on time, sits on one of the benches outside for a few minutes while she waits for Britta. The latter’s car shambles into the parking lot, predictably, a moment later - and then Britta’s rushing out, messy-haired and apologising. 

“I’m _so so_ sorry I’m late, just, my alarm didn’t go off, and then Mr Whiskers threw up on the sweater I was gonna wear, and then my car broke down-“ 

“Your car broke down?” Annie asks as they push through the entrance doors. “Again? You really should think about getting a new one.” 

“Never,” Britta declares. “I don’t want to buy into the mindless capitalist churn-out of machines designed to blow an even bigger hole in the o-zone layer.” 

“And you still haven’t found a new job, right?” 

“Maybe that’s part of it,” she allows. 

—-

They’re tucking into their respective breakfasts - for Britta, a veggie skillet; for Annie, an irresponsibly large stack of waffles - when she looks up and she _sees them._

For a few blissful seconds, she’s able to almost talk herself out of it, tell herself she’s just imagining it - but then Anthony turns, and she can see his face, and though he’s made a significant attempt at trying to grow to his facial hair she can tell that it’s him, it’s most definitely him. 

And the woman standing next to him has dyed her hair since Annie last saw her, but again, it’s clearly _her._

Neither of them look her way but she feels herself subconsciously straighten anyway - or, no, not _straighten,_ more snap right back into place. Back ramrod straight. 

Britta must pick up on something because she turns round quickly, managing to glance at the newcomers before meeting Annie’s eyes. 

“Is that-“

“Shhh.” 

“Shit,” Britta says, quieter. 

They end up being seated on the other side of the diner, and once Annie’s _mostly_ sure they can’t see her, she lets herself slump down into the booth. 

“Are they gone?” 

She nods. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” She pushes the remaining few bites of her waffle around on her plate. “It’s just been a while since I last saw her, is all.”

Britta nods, perhaps understandingly. “We can go right now, if you want.” 

Annie considers this for a moment, before shaking her head. “No. Let’s just finish our food. It’s not that big of a deal.” 

—-

When they’re leaving, she watches Anthony, the way he shifts nervously when his - _their_ \- mother wrinkles her nose at the food the poor waitress sets out in front of her. Annie can tell it’s probably his gift for her, or something - either way, he’s footing the bill - and she wonders if the woman will even have the decency to _pretend_ to enjoy it. 

Right before she’s out the door, her mother looks up, suddenly, and Annie could swear her eyes met hers and she shoots her this - this look, a real bad look, before going back to her food. 

* * *

_14th May, 2023._

She wakes to the feeling of something wet and sticky pressing against her cheek, and knows exactly who the culprit is without having to look. 

“Mmm.” She opens one eye. 

Then Sebastian moves down to blow a raspberry on her arm, and she sits up. “Alright, I’m awake, I’m awake.” 

He thrusts a card at her. 

“Thank you very much,” Annie replies, making room for him to clamber over the bed and crawl into the centre. Pointing to the smiling stick-figures on the front of the card, “that’s you and me, right?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

On the inside is simply printed _“TO MOM FROM BAZ”_ , with a shakily-drawn heart in the middle. She carefully stands it up on the bedside table, facing out. 

As she wraps her arms around him, he squirms, faux-whispering into her ear, “Dad made breakfast. But it’s a secret.” 

“It’s a secret, huh?” 

He nods, solemnly. 

“I guess we better not tell your dad that I know, then.” 

Sebastian grins - he’s developed a recent affinity for being let in on secrets. Annie thinks it’s because he likes the feeling of being grown-up, whereas Jeff believes he’s just curious. 

“I helped.” He confides, proudly. 

“You helped? Really?” She puts on her most impressed sounding voice. “And is that why you’re all sticky?” 

Sebastian nods, giggling. Sometimes Annie can’t believe they got so lucky. (Not that she’s biased, or anything - even Jeff agrees that they definitely have the best, brightest kid in the entire world.) 

There’s a soft knock on the other side of the door. 

“Come in!” Annie calls, and feigns surprise at the sight of the stack of perfectly fluffy pancakes, complete with jelly, cream, and chocolate-covered strawberries. 

Aww!

Jeff stoops to set the tray down, and before he can straighten up Annie throws an arm around his neck, keeping him close. “Thank you,” she says, and places a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He smiles like, _“you’re welcome”,_ and they both decide to ignore Sebastian blatantly stealing strawberries from her plate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> breakfast is an Important Theme apparently


End file.
